Dreams were restless and fervent, pressing and heated despite their incoherency as they seized Kat. She found herself twisting and turning, thrown about in that roiling sea of her own thoughts. A mixture of faces, half-fleeting and indecipherable, flashed before her in that churning mass. They bore voices known and foreign, speaking in a hundred tongues that she could not hear nor understand. Like a storm, like a gale, they battered her with their words until she tumbled astray in the tempest.

She saw Revan in front of her, in his full legion armor marching. There were no others beside him, no soldiers by his side. He stood alone, and she wanted desperately to run forth and join him—to hold those hands that gripped the handle of his sword so tightly that the knuckles turned white. His jaw was clenched, twitching in that way that it did when he was thinking hard. His eyes, normally so gentle and warm, were now harder than granite as they gazed unflinchingly at some distant target.

And then there were more soldiers, more men by his side. They were a shieldwall, pressing forward slowly against some unseen foe. They shouted and grunted as they lashed out with their short swords, the blades flickering out of the gaps in between their rectangular shields like darting tongues. They came out silver, pulling back covered in crimson. Over and over those stabbing blades struck, yet on occasion a man would let out a scream. His side would spray with blood, a scarlet gash appearing on his side. He would stagger only to rise up, half supported by the man behind him. That towering shield would be a pressing weight on him, and the wood and leather would begin to list as his strength failed him. Blow after blow would rain down on the weakened soldier, until finally his shield fell and he found himself greeting cold steel.

His corpse would strike the ground, still warm with departing life, and the man behind him would take his place in the wall. Boots would march over the fallen, striking out that heartless cadence of steps. They were soldiers. They were parts of a machine, to be replaced as needed. They were legion, pressing forward relentlessly against that unseen foe, whatever it would be.

She felt a great pride as she watched them, felt her heart shudder whenever Revan avoided a lethal blow. A blade would sneak in between the shields, only to be clamped together by wooden edges. A hook-like scythe was dart in from above, narrowly glancing off the helmet. A slash would graze his arm, narrowly missing the whole of his wrist. Over and over they pressed on, words and commands inaudible over the incoherency and madness of the fevered battle. Over and over she saw him greet death’s fleeting grasp, saved only by luck and the grace of the gods. Over and over she watched, waiting for the blow when that luck would run dry.

More and more beside him fell, spraying blood from wounds as screams slipped out of gurgling throats. Soon there were only three, pressing forward with shields still raised. REvan stood strong in the center, his armor stained with crimson, his shield dotted with arrows and sword hacks. His steps were labored, half staggering as he tried to press on over corpses of allies and fallen foes alike. And finally, when the last blow came, when the last sword had struck flesh and the last wail had been given, their march came to a halt. The two other soldiers set their shields on the ground, their swords clattering as they fell. Raising their fists in salute, they crumpled to the ground with a sickening crunch from the toll of their wounds.

She saw the cloud lift, saw the fog of war disperse. Kneeling together, huddled miserably, were two familiar figures. Her parents, she realized with a sensation of despair. No, she half screamed as Revan strode closer, his massive shield clattering to the ground as he drew his blade. No, no this isn’t real, she half screamed to herself, trying to dispel the scene before her. She clawed at the ground, tried to claw at herself. Yet those boot struck the ground inexorably, warm crimson dripping a trail behind him as it fell from the tip of his blade. And she saw dear Revan lift that short sword, saw the tears streaming down her mother’s face.

Her kind mother, who had so many times yelled at her to stop climbing the garden walls. Who had sewed new dresses for her to wear, even if she would only throw them into her closet. Who had watched with a white face the first time that she had ever held a sword. Who had smiled when she had first talked about marriage, and who had nearly fainted when she wanted to join the legion. And beside her mother, kneeling protectively over her, was her father.

Her proud father, who had always taken pride in raising her like the son they did not have. Who had laughed and cheered her on to keep climbing higher. Who had caught her when she finally fell, his shoulder striking the ground and bruising for two weeks. Who bought her breeches and tunics to wear, despite her mother’s protests. Who had given her the first blade that she had held, and had guided her arm the first time she had swung it. Who had beamed with pride when she had spoken of marriage, and who had laughed heartily when she discussed the legion.

Her parents, who had loved her. They knelt there, in the ruins of whatever battle this proved to be, and she screamed out helplessly that this was a dream. She screamed for them to run, for them to flee, but they could not hear her. Their faces were speckled with mud and blood, their expression listless as Revan drew closer. She wanted to run forward, but she had no legs. She wanted to yell at Revan, but she had not voice. She could only watch as her father stood slowly, his fine clothes torn ragged. There was no blade by his side, and so he lifted his fists. His eyes were hopeless, his jaw set and taut.

With a staggering cry, his fist lashed out at Revan’s face. Yet the soldier sidestepped the blow easily, bringing his blade up to bear. Her father danced back, the slash catching him along the chest instead of the throat. Throwing himself forward, he tackled Revan, his fist striking the man’s throat. The two went down in a wrestling bundle, the sword clattering to the ground in the fall. There was a sickening crunch as Revan’s blow landed, blood spraying from her father’s nose. Again and again that gloved fist struck his mouth, his eyes, his shattered nose until her father’s once-familiar face was but a pulpy mess of battered flesh. Blood leaked from the twitching mass, broken teeth and bone scattered amongst the ruined tissue. One final crack across the skull made her father stop moving, save for the occasional erratic spray of blood from a wound.

Revan stood up, the front of his armor utterly covered in crimson and gore as he picked up his sword. She could see her mother crying, see her shoulders heaving as Revan staggered over. With an arm on her shoulder, he hauled her up onto her feet, grunting from the effort. In that same motion, his blade buried itself in her stomach, twisting savagely before pulling back out. Blood and bile spilled out of her mouth as she coughing, falling limp on the ground twitching in reflexive death throes. The dark puddle around her only grew larger as Revan stumbled back, flicking the blood off of his blade.

His eyes were uncaring, unfamiliar as he turned away from the corpses. His gaze traveled through the ruins, through the haze of her dreams until finally it settled on her. And then a smile crept across his face, making a trembling fear clutch at her stomach. That was not the kind smile she knew, despite the familiar face that he wore. Whatever this was, it was not her Revan. And yet she could not look away as he held that blade sideways, slashing brutally across his own throat. She could not look away as spurting scarlet blossomed from his neck, that gruesome smile unflinching as he crumpled and died.

Tears fell from her face, although she could not feel them. This is a dream, she told herself, trying to rouse from sleep. No one is truly dead, nothing here is real. Yet as if hearing her thoughts, there came a droning buzzing from the horizon. Shock gave way to recognition, in turn giving way to terror—a clawing horror that ate away at her. She dared not to turn, knowing what she would see. A swarm of skal’va flew in from the horizon, a cloud so large that it blotted out the sky. They swallowed the dead, gorging themselves on the corpses amidst the ruins. Black, dotted shadow tore away at flesh and blood until there was nothing left.

When they were finished, there were only bones and dust. The swarm gathered and billowed, condensing tighter and tighter until they seemed to form a single figure. The blood and sinew that they had stolen knit itself together, stretching and contorting until they finally formed what seemed to be a corpse. It was withered and hideous, the thing warped with the loss of life. Greying, pallid skin sat on top of too-thin bones, eyes slowly blinking open to reveal pools of black in those sockets.

How does it feel, to join the dead? The voice rasped something hideous, like a thousand vipers burying their fangs in her mind. This is all a dream. I’m not dead. Her thoughts were pleading, even to herself as she fought to wake. All that she elicited from her efforts was a chuckle from the living corpse.

You cannot wake, for you are already dead. My god has claimed you, and so you join the ranks of the dead. Cackling laughter crept its way out of those cracked lips, and she felt the madness they brought sneaking into her mind. Know my god, Katherine of House Black. Know his name; know his call. Kneel in service; kneel in Faith. Tremble in prayer; tremble at his touch. Serve him well, and he will show you the way as he has shown me. Serve Atal; have Faith in the truest god. The god of death and decay will always be the victor in the end.

With that rasping laughter, the corpse dispersed once more into a cloud of skal’va. They billowed towards the sky, their buzzing growing louder and louder until they drowned out her thoughts. With a sudden viciousness, they plunged towards her waiting figure. Black swarming shadow flew into her mouth, shot through her throat even as she screamed and fought and writhed. Horrible, inescapable pain seared her mind and finally, blissfully, she woke.

A gasping scream was all that she could manage as she woke, her body covered in sweat, her heart racing frantically. Hurriedly, she patted herself, her gaze flying over herself as if to make sure that she was safe. There was no blood on her, no wounds save for a pain in her head and a soreness to her throat. Her chest felt tight, and she spit out a glob of blood from where she must have bit her tongue in her sleep.

“It was a dream.” she gasped out desperately, as if trying to remind herself. “It was only just a dream.”

Yet even as those words escaped her breathless lips, that same rasping laughter of a thousand voices could be heard echoing throughout her thoughts. Her gaze turned to her hand, her fingers growing hazy as her vision blurred. My god has already claimed you, Katherine of House Black. It was no mere dream. Join us.

Join the dead.